The speaker sits sweating in the shade next to a boulder, and the pairing says a lot: the two of them are equally still, equally weighed down by the heat. The joke about shaving his head is wry and a little helpless. Even a small attempt at cooling off would only make the sun feel nearer, so there's no real escape.
Then the scene turns noisy and slightly menacing. A flock of crows gathers so close it seems to settle inside his ear, and the poem zooms in on their glossy black feathers, all pointed at an owl. The speaker doesn't say what he feels, but the images suggest irritation, pressure, and a sense of being crowded in.
The title hints at a bigger picture. Read as a note from the Anthropocene, the poem makes a hot, uncomfortable afternoon feel like a small sign of larger unease. The mood is dry, tense, and quietly watchful.